


Cruel and Unusual

by geekmama



Series: All Holiday [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 14:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11876019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: Some weeks after Sherrinford and that phone call, Sherlock isn't the only one who's cruel and unusual.





	Cruel and Unusual

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Writer's Choice" prompt: _Valentine_
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In the wee hours of the night, Sherlock slipped into Molly’s bed, insinuating himself between her favorite old, wonderfully soft sheets and savoring the weight of her winter duvet, its garish rose pattern of no concern at all in the velvet blackness of her room. The faint scents of a recent laundering and her shower gel were evident, along with something slightly less pleasant that he couldn’t immediately place... 

However, so far, so good. 

He embarked on the second phase of his plan, slowly inching over, closer and closer, with infinite stealth, until at last he was curled around, though not quite touching, her still form. The heat of her body seeped across the miniscule space between them, warming him, and he gave a small sigh of relief. 

His happy state was short-lived, however, for he’d no sooner settled than she was abruptly moving, flopping gracelessly over to face him, obviously not asleep (how had he missed that?) and he gave a kind of stuttering gasp as she grabbed the thin material of his vest in one fist and said in a low, slightly slurred growl, “Sherlock Holmes, you are a _cruel man_.” 

He started to object, but she twisted the fistful of vest tighter, lunged forward, and suddenly kissed him, not quite accurately but close enough. 

He now recognized that third strange scent. “You’ve been drinking!” he exclaimed, though he was half laughing in surprise at her behavior. 

“Course I’ve been drinking, it was Meena’s Hen Night!” 

“Oh. Yes. Her… third marriage?” 

“Second.” 

“Whatever. And I am _not_ cruel! At least, I’ve made a great effort not to be. Toward you. Lately.” 

“You _are_ , but I suppose it’s your innate male stupidity. Can’t help it.” 

This level of intoxication was unusual for her, as was the abuse and bitter tone. “What the devil are you on about, Hooper?” he demanded, plucking at her hand. “Look, let go and I’ll leave, if you’d rather--” 

“No, I _don’t_ want you to leave!” she said angrily, tightening her fingers, and even clawing his chest a bit through the material, and then she actually kissed him again, more on target this time, and clumsily but forcefully plastered her body against his. He found himself laughing, and kissing her back almost in spite of himself, both appalled and delighted... 

But then she abruptly broke the kiss. “You’re fucking _freezing!_ Did you fall in the Thames?” 

“I’m not _that_ wet! Now who’s being stupid? I was out on a case until some God-forsaken hour, _in the rain_ , and you may have noticed it’s _the dead of winter!_ ” 

“So you thought you’d just break in and warm yourself up in my bed, did you?” she hissed, outraged. “Just like old times, your favorite bolthole, never mind that you’ve barely spoken to me in _weeks_. Bastard. _I’ll_ fucking warm you up!” 

“Mmmmph!” was all he managed to reply, for she was at it again, kissing him, and wrapping herself about him,  pushing him back against the pillows now, very warm, very alive… and very much appreciated, he realized, in spite of her execrable attitude and the lingering (though now rapidly dissipating) chill. 

He found himself regretting that it really wouldn’t do. 

“Stop it right now!” he sputtered, catching both her wrists in his hands. After a brief struggle, he shoved her over, onto her back, and pinned her firmly. _Very_ firmly. 

“ _I knew it!_ ” she exclaimed in triumph, “You _do_ want me!” She squirmed strategically, in such a way that neither of them could mistake the now obvious evidence of his regard. 

“Stop it!” he demanded again, his voice now rather strained. “I can’t take advantage of you when you’re lit to the eyeballs! Who’s being cruel now? And what do you mean _I’m_ cruel? I’m bloody _not!_ ” 

“You _are!”_ she insisted, struggling determinedly (and all too provocatively). _“_ You horrible, _stupid_ man! Climbing into bed with me without so much as a by-your-leave, after all these _weeks!_ But touch me? Oh, _no!_ Never _that_ , barely ever in all the years I’ve known you, even when I’ve been thinking and thinking of you for hours, that horrid club Meena chose was full of beautiful, stupid men, but none to compare with _you_ , of course, you great consulting _git_ , it’s like some spell you’ve cast… or… or a _curse…_ that’s all I could... 

But she was suddenly oddly still. 

“Are you alright?” he asked warily. 

There was a pause and then a tight, urgent, “ _Let me up!_ ” 

He did, with appropriate haste, and she scrambled out of the bed and across the room, throwing on the light as she disappeared into the en-suite. A voice in his head (it might have been Mary’s) had been suggesting that a true gentleman would offer assistance, gather her hair away from the line of fire, or at least pat her back and murmur “There, there!” in soothing tones, but the slam of the door and the distinct click of the lock precluded any immediate need for intervention. 

Just as well. He needed some time to put his thoughts in order.  

 

*

 

Sometime later, the sounds of retching, flushing, and running water having died away, she emerged, quickly shut off the light, and staggered swiftly (from the sound of it) back to the bed. Scooted under the covers and shuffled straight over to him, shivering convulsively. He gathered her close against him and drew the heavy bedclothes tight around them. 

“You’re still here,” she managed in a shaking voice, clinging to him, her desperation for something warm and solid all too familiar (he’d been in similar circumstances a time or two, though not for anything as innocuous as alcohol). “Wh-what was I saying?” 

“Oh, various things. _In vino veritas_. You called me cruel. And stupid.” 

She gave a weak laugh. After a minute she muttered, “Should have taken some paracetamol.” 

“Might make you sick again, but do you want me to get you some?” 

“ _No!_ Too cold. Just… stay. Here.” 

“Very well.” He hugged her closer. 

She sighed. “Can’t remember what I was… we were… just… delete it. _Faaaar_ too much to drink.” 

“Mmm. We can talk about it in the morning.” 

“ _No!_ ” She pushed away, lifted her face to his in the blackness, her breath smelling more of mouthwash than anything else, thank God. “No need to talk. It’s all good. We’re… we’re _friends_. Just as you said.” 

Oh, that horrible phone call. 

He kissed her forehead. “Go to sleep, Molly,” he said softly. 

Too weary to argue, she relaxed against him, her shivering slowly abating. He lay there holding her, thinking (and often smiling) for a while, before he, too, dropped off.

 

*

 

The call of nature forced Molly from her bed around noon the next day. She whimpered, biting her lip against the pain, then groaned aloud and held her head together as she made her way into the loo. 

She was uncomfortably certain Sherlock had crawled into bed with her sometime during the night, and she vaguely remembered being angry about it, though the details of their encounter escaped her. Why, oh _why_ had she overindulged to that extent? She very much feared she had said things that… well, would have been better left unsaid. 

There had been no sign of him, though, when she’d struggled up toward the ghastly light of consciousness, maybe an hour since? Perhaps he’d gone, and there was no need to be concerned. No need to _talk about it in the morning_. She was almost certain she remembered him saying that. 

Morning had flown by on hideous wings, of course. It was now noon, and, peaking furtively out the loo door, she saw no evidence that he’d even been there. 

He’d probably abandoned her in disgust. 

She was relieved. Yes. Definitely relieved. 

Not disappointed in the least. 

She pulled herself together. Dosed herself with paracetamol and a big glass of water. Showered ( _not_ thinking of Sherlock in any aspect as she did so), and eventually emerged pink and glowing and feeling somewhat more human. Her headache had begun to fade, and the lingering nausea would probably be alleviated by some tea and toast. To that end, she wrapped her wet hair in a towel, threw on the luxuriously fluffy full-length bright pink dressing gown her mother had given her for Christmas, and went downstairs. 

She stopped dead on the threshold of her kitchen as Sherlock looked up from where he’d been sitting by the wide island, ubiquitous phone in hand. 

“Good morning,” he said, his face alight with amusement as his eyes swept over her. 

She felt herself blushing. “I thought you were gone!” 

“Nope.” He set his phone on the counter and got to his feet. “I’ve made you some tea, and there’s toast coming in a moment. I presume you don’t want butter?” 

“No. Thank you. How did you--” 

“I heard you showering. Thought you’d need something mild when you dared to rejoin the living.” He poured out a cup of steaming tea for her. “Come sit down.” 

“I should go get dressed,” she muttered, but sat down anyway, carefully arranging the dressing gown _since she had nothing on beneath it_. Her cheeks grew even warmer at this realization, and she busied herself putting milk and sugar in her tea, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. 

She finally took a sip. The tea was excellent. Exactly right. 

She closed her eyes, savoring it, and then could not help breathing, “Oh, that’s lovely! How is it you’re good at _everything?_ ” 

“Well, there are some things I’ve never tried. I might not be good at those.” 

She dared to look up at him and saw that his expression had altered to something more quizzical. 

Then he added, “You might have to be patient with me.” 

An odd frisson went through her. “W-what do you mean?” She set the teacup down carefully. 

The toast noisily popped up from the toaster. He went to put it on a plate, ignoring her question in favor of observing, “That was quite the Hen Night, apparently.” 

Molly cleared her throat. “Yes. We went to that new club, Bali. They had all these exotic drinks with little umbrellas and lots of fruit. Stronger than I was anticipating, I’m afraid.” She tried to chuckle as she added, “Not sure I’ll ever look Rum in the eye again,” but it fell sadly flat. 

She was starting to remember bits of the previous night. 

Sherlock came over to her and set the plate of toast down in front of her. She murmured thanks, picked up a triangle, and had just taken a small bite off the corner when he said, wryly, “Lots of _beautiful, stupid men_ , though, from what you were telling me.” 

She nearly choked, stared up at him, her heart thudding as she chewed quickly and swallowed. “Sher--” she began, but then gave a tiny gasp as he swiftly bent and kissed her. On the lips. “Oh!” she found herself whispering. 

“Oh, indeed,” he said. “Do you remember much of last night?” 

“Y-yes. A little. I...um… kissed you?” 

“Mmm. Forcibly. Several times.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Are you?” His brows rose. 

“I… Shouldn’t I be?” 

“No,” he said, suddenly more serious. “Though you might apologize for calling me cruel. It’s _you_ who’s been cruel, telling me you were satisfied that we remain just friends.” 

“But we both agreed--” 

“ _We_ did nothing of the sort _,”_ he snapped. “You _insisted_ and I _acquiesced._ In spite of my misgivings, which were obviously, in hindsight, more than reasonable.” 

“Sherlock, you were _forced_ to say it!” 

“ _So were you!_ ” He fell silent for a moment, breathing rather quickly, glaring down at her. But when he spoke again, his voice was deadly calm. “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t true, Molly.” 

Molly stared at him. “But… you don’t love me. Not… not _that_ way.” 

Sherlock gave a groan of frustration, and ran his hands through his hair. Then he said, with vehement tone and gesture, “What do I need to do, Molly? I’m nearly forty years old, we’ve wasted _years_ \-- no, _I’ve_ wasted years. But I’ll set about wooing you, for however long it takes, if that’s what you really want.” 

She gaped. Finally _seeing_ him. And seeing herself, too. There could be no doubt… none at all. She said then, almost in a whisper, “What do _you_ want, Sherlock Holmes?” 

A slow smile transformed his expression. “You, Molly Hooper,” he said, in a voice that made her tremble within. “Now and always.”

 

*

 

“How is it,” Sherlock asked, running his hand lightly up her bare thigh, “that I’ve just realized you’re naked under that hideous dressing gown?” 

He was now seated in her most comfortable armchair, and she was curled in his lap with her dressing gown in slight disarray, the importance of modesty having diminished in light of recent events. There had been superb kisses, ardent embraces, and fervent declarations -- and a few tears, too -- before he finally snatched her up and carried her into the lounge so they could continue their discussion in greater comfort. 

“It’s a beautiful dressing gown!” she protested. “The color is… “ 

“A bit sudden?” Sherlock suggested, “To put it kindly.” 

She smirked. “How lovely that you’re making the effort to curb your… um… wit.” 

“Yes, isn’t it? And perhaps _you’ll_ no longer be inclined to throw unjust epithets at me.” 

She sighed. “I told you I was sorry.” 

“No, you didn’t. You said you were sorry for kissing me.” 

She looked up at him, widening her eyes in a simulacrum of innocence, her fingers going to the buttons of his shirt, which clearly needed to be undone. “I’m sure you’re mistaken. Why would I be sorry for that?” 

“That was my thought at the time, as you well know. And what do you think you’re doing?” 

“Oh, don’t tell me to stop. I’ve wanted to do this for nearly seven years.” 

“Sit on my lap and unbutton my shirt?” 

“Well, yes. As a… a sort of _prelude_ , you know.”

“I see.” 

He sounded so serious that she did stop and looked up at him again. “Don’t you want to?” 

“God, yes!” he almost gasped. “But I’m not the one who was so tragically overserved last evening. Are _you_ sure _you_ want to, just now?” 

“Well… we may have to take things very slowly… More carefully than is usual in such cases. _Patience_ , as you were saying.” 

He gave her a look. “You’re going to be the death of me, aren’t you?” 

She smiled. 

He sighed dramatically and, resigned to his fate, gave her a quick kiss. “I suppose we’d better get on with it then,” he said, and began to tease loose the sash of her dressing gown.

 

 

~.~ 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                  


End file.
